Tales of the Pack
by Mikiya2200
Summary: "Missing scenes" for my story "If you could only see". - Please read A/N!


**A/N**: So, what is this? Well, first of all: I hate flashbacks. Don't ask me why, I couldn't really give you an explanation you would understand, it is like it is: I hate them. Second: While working on my story _"If you could only see"_ my muses tend to become sidetracked. Which usually results in a scene that doesn't fit into the story. Okay, that's not entirely true, I guess I could work them into it as flashbacks, but, as I've said before: I hate them. So not going to happen. Still I want people to be able to read the scenes. So I've decided to post those snippets or outtakes or whatever you want to call them as a collection of snippets in this "story". I don't think you have to have read the "main story" to understand the first chapter.

As usual my biggest thanks go to my **Ghosty**, she did the beta on this, talked to me all night about it and I'm SO happy to finally have you back, hun, you have NO idea! -hugs- Thank you so much for your support and all the fun I have chatting with you! Oh, and thanks for the title! :)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the boys or the cars. I do own the idea for this AU.

**Timeline: **This chapter takes place 4 years before the events of the main story.

* * *

There was nothing in the whole friggin wide world he hated more than having to stay in one place for long. One or two days for research and scouting the area they were going to hunt was okay, he could do that, no problem. Three days tops. But by the end of the fourth day he'd start to feel itchy and bored, and it would be worse if they were staying in the small towns.

It was usually on the fourth day he and Sam would clash; they'd start arguing about something trivial like how _it's_ _so_ _fucking childish to tie all the laces of my shoes into this fucking knot, Dean, I had to _cut_ them, _all_ of them! _Which, seriously, was even funnier when he got to watch Sam go through their stuff looking for his old shoes and snap at him like a whiny five-year-old about how he was an ass and _you should really grow up, Dean! _

And then Sam would come back at him with some lame-ass prank that would either clear the air between them or get the next war going. And yeah, he was twenty-two, so what? There were certain obligations he had to fulfill and one of them was to make that pain-in-the-ass suffer and have some fun doing it.

Then there were the times he couldn't leave the room 'cause of some stupid injury from the previous hunt. Like the broken ankle that was plaguing him right now, turning his down-time into some boring exercise of 'things you can't do with a 100 pounds cast on your ankle'. He'd twisted the damned thing so badly trying to get between his brother and the ghost that, as soon as he had tried to get up, there had been a blinding pain and his whole leg had given out, sending him back to the floor. Which, of course, had led to Sam having to drive Casper off without any help from him. Just as his brother had planned to do in the first place, before that treacherous puddle of slippery water had sneaked up on Dean.

Not only had Sam saved his ass back then, but also gone from worried to furious in under two seconds, growling at Dean that he was perfectly capable of taking out a ghost himself, thank you very much. He'd _almost_ proceeded to show him how capable he was by bashing in Dean's skull with the crowbar he had been carrying and then threatened to leave him behind. Which, of course, had been a lie and Dean had seen right through it.

Anyway, his ankle had swollen so badly it was decided (over his friggin' head!) to take him to the hospital despite his protests (a sprained ankle, how _lame_ was that?). The doctor had found out that '_no, Mr. McGillicuddy, it isn't just sprained, it's broken, in two places at that, and you really should wear a cast after the swelling goes down.' _

It only had gone downhill from then on:Not only did he have to stay in the hospital until they could put it on, he had also missed the second part of the hunt in which his father and his brother put the remaining three ghosts to their permanent rest. And that had sucked, and sucked big-ass. He hadn't been able to sleep, hadn't been able to relax, he'd gone _nuts_ in that room, worrying about them until his father had sent him a message to let him know they'd finished the hunt successfully.

So when Sam had showed up at the hospital after three of the longest days of his life Dean had been so itching to leave the place behind he hadn't even complained that much about the wheelchair they'd made him use on his way out. They'd been on the road to the next hunt later that evening and he had to endure his gloating brother teasing him all the way about the fact that Dean wasn't the one driving and wouldn't be for some weeks and _look at me, Dean, I'm driving your precious baby!_ After four hours of that he'd seriously considered fratricide, just to shut him up and get to have some peace and quiet. He'd even fantasized about filling it with Metallica or Zeppelin as soon as he'd got rid of the body.

It didn't get better after that, as much as he really deserved a break, he couldn't really do much with the chunky cast. While his father and his brother went out to scout the area and gather information, he was left with crappy daytime TV, even worse snacks from the last gas station, and the book Sam had thrown at him before trotting out behind John. Still, Dean had felt a little sorry for his brother as they left, his shoulders slumped, face drawn into a grimace as if he was going to his own execution.

As usual, their dad had turned this into another example of how much Sam still had to learn about everything and, to be honest, working this job together was a chance for both of them to learn something about the other. Or so Dean hoped.

Whatever.

Fact was, he had just awoken from a not so deep sleep to an ankle that was throbbing like a sonofabitch and the very unpleasant sensation of a full bladder. Which meant one of those extremely tiring trips to the bathroom, hanging on to furniture that always seemed to be just out of reach or threatening those stupid crutches into actually supporting him rather than doing their best to trip him. It took him a moment to get the room into focus and he didn't even have to look around to know that he was alone. Sam must have left while he had been asleep and he scanned the bedside table for a note. Which wasn't there. The note, not the bedside table. He blinked in surprise, took another minute to look the room over for any kind of message and, when he found none, he slowly sat up, running a tired hand over his face.

This was weird; Sam would never leave for a hunt without—

Something caught his eye as he moved his injured foot and he looked down. And looked.

And started cursing.

Someone—that _bitch!_—had drawn on his cast.

_JERK_

The four letter word stood out against the white plaster, there was no way you could overlook it. The little shit had even thought of aligning the letters in the right direction so he wouldn't have to look at them upside down. He'd used a black pen and made them as bold as they got, putting the 'endearment' directly beneath his toes so that every time he looked at his foot, which he was doing on a fairly regular basis these days, he would read it. And just big enough for _everyone_ else to see.

_Sonofabitch_, that asshole was _so_ going down for that, if he—_as soon_ as he got his hand on that scrawny neck, he'd make _so_ sure he was going to pay. Big time! Twice at least!

And still… he had to admit that this time his brother had outdone himself. It was ingenious, just the right amount of embarrassing and innocent to not provoke their father to punish him. It might have even been one of the best pranks his brother had ever played on him. And that was in a long, _long_ line of pranks.

He would kill him for it. Nice and slow, maybe beat him to death with that cast so it would be the last thing he ever saw. Oh yeah, _that_ sounded like a plan, revenge would be sweet, he was _so_ going to—

It took him a moment to realize that wasn't the only thing written on the cast. Beneath the insult and a little to the right were smaller letters he had to bend over to be able to read.

_It's a witch. 400. BB 3h_

So there was his note. They'd left at four and would be back three hours later. A quick glance at his watch told him it was almost seven, about the time they were due to return.

As if on cue he could hear the familiar sound of his father's car pulling up to a spot close to their room. A door opened and closed and then heavy steps moved around. He waited for the unmistakable sound of his brother exiting the car as well, slamming his door shut while arguing about whatever he thought was wrong, but Sam's voice wasn't to be heard.

Dean frowned, silence wasn't good.

The steps quickened and approached their room and suddenly the door was thrust open and his father appeared in the doorway. Alone.

And Dean immediately knew that something was wrong.

John was breathing heavily; his jacket was gone, and there was a red spot on his shirt at chest-level. The once white shirt was muddy and torn in two places, though as far as Dean could see there weren't any wounds. His father's face was tense, dark eyes scanning the room nervously for a moment before they came to rest on Sam's bed. He didn't acknowledge Dean's worried look, crossing the room with quick strides and pulling the bedspread off.

Damn, Sam was hurt.

He knew better than to bother his father with questions in a situation like this, John hadn't taken Sam to the hospital which already told him whatever wound his brother had suffered was probably not life-threatening. It should have calmed him down a little, but all he could feel was his stomach twisting in worry.

John was out of the door within seconds and Dean could hear the side-door of the car open. Completely ignoring his throbbing ankle he reached for his crutches and was upright by the time his father reappeared at the open door. He was carrying… _something_ in his arms. It was covered completely by the large bedspread and Dean breathed a sigh of relief when he realized it was way too _small_ for his brother. Whatever it was seemed to be really heavy, his father was gasping in air with every step.

"What happened?"

Ignoring his question, John carried the bundle to Sam's bed and laid it down, then turned and hurried out of the door again.

"Stay away from him."

_Him?_

Dean frowned, taken aback by the gruff order, but he didn't approach the bed, eyeing the hidden thing from a safe distance. _It_ seemed to be breathing, the comforter was rising and falling in a quick rhythm and Dean could hear soft panting. He didn't know why, but there was a sudden coldness joining the twisting knot inside his stomach and he could feel himself stiffen in dread, there was something wrong about this picture, he just didn't know what exactly.

Outside the open car door was slammed shut and then John was back inside the room, kicking the door closed behind him with a boot. He remained at the door for a moment, eyeing the bed as if he was afraid whatever was on it would jump at him. John shifted on his feet for a second, taking a deep breath before he slowly approached the bed. Dean could feel his anxiety crawl all the way up to his throat when the lump on the bed moved slightly and a miserable whine could be heard.

"Dad, what happened, where's Sam?" He forced the words out through a tight throat, barely loud enough to be heard over the panting.

His father spared him a glance, eyes dark with worry and something he couldn't read that quickly. Dean found himself holding his breath when John slowly reached for the comforter.

"I couldn't take her down fast enough…"

John's cryptic words made his throat close up completely within a second and Dean could barely get enough air to keep breathing. He wanted to ask for his brother again, needed to know Sam was okay, but his father pulled the bedspread off the lump before he could voice his question. By the time he had finally comprehended what he was seeing he didn't have any air left to talk.

Lying on its side with its front-paws bound together by a dirty T-shirt was… a _dog_.

It was a huge beast, dirty grey fur highlighted with tufts of white hair covering a rather skinny body. Long legs stretched out to the side across the bed, twitching slightly. A second T-shirt had been used as a crude muzzle, allowing the dog to open its mouth only wide enough to be able to pant. It was tied around the animal's neck so it couldn't slip off. The bushy tail was trembling hard, furry ears moving frantically. It seemed as if it couldn't pinpoint the location of the sounds it was hearing, but was still trying to figure out where they were coming from.

As soon as the blanket was gone the shaggy head came up, the shaking body tensing as the dog tried to get its bound paws beneath its belly to get up. It didn't work, the head tilted to the side before it could raise completely, then flopped back down onto the sheets almost immediately, dark, wild eyes darting around the room without focusing on anything. Dean didn't know much about dogs but even he could tell the animal was in pain and panicking, getting more worked up by the minute.

"What happened?"

Forgetting about his brother for a second, Dean slowly limped closer to the bed, trying to get a better view. The dog didn't react to him, just continued to pant through the T-shirt, its gasps for air ending on tiny, miserable whimpers.

"I had to knock him out, he was attacking me, he wanted to get out of the house…"

His father was staring at the dog, the bedspread still clutched in his hands as he took in every movement, wincing when the animal let out a soft whine. John's voice dropped lower, taking on a quality Dean wasn't used to hearing from him and couldn't identify just then.

"I couldn't let him run away…"

Something in his tone turned the blood in Dean's veins to ice, this was wrong, this was so very wrong he couldn't even begin to describe how awfully wrong it was. He couldn't help but stare at the animal, then at his father, watching as John ran a hand over his face and covered his mouth for a moment as he watched the dog. His dad was silently losing his cool and that was just... It _never_ happened.

Never.

And then the last clue suddenly clicked into place and Dean's breath caught in his throat, his mind immediately trying to deny the conclusion he was coming up with. No, nonono, no way…

They had been hunting a _witch_…

His voice gave out as he tried to speak; he had to force the words out through an unbelievably tight throat, barely managing to make them understandable. "Dad, is that _Sam_?"

The look his father gave him was one of barely concealed horror and it was so completely out of place on his features he looked like a stranger. He didn't give any indication that Dean's theory was right, didn't really do much at all. He didn't really have to.

"Oh my god…"

Dean felt his legs go weak beneath him and he barely made it back to the couch before he sank down on top of it, his eyes glued to the do—his _brother_. His furry, four-legged, panting and reeking of dog all over the place-brother.

The freakin' bitch who had only _three hours_ ago decorated his fucking cast with a fucking insult—

Sam had been turned into a dog.

"She cursed him before I could take her out." John wasn't really talking to Dean; the words just seemed to fall out of his mouth without any permission of his father. His voice was so soft Dean almost didn't hear him. "She threw something at him, some kind of powder… She said something, a _spell _and he fell down…"

The dog—_Sam_ tried to lift his head again but didn't get very far, it wobbled unsteadily on his neck before it flopped back down onto the bed.

Oh god.

They had to do something, they needed to help him, Sam was _hurt_, in pain, no matter how many legs he had, there had to be a way—

"There has to be a way to reverse this—"

He didn't realize he was speaking out loud, his head snapping up when an idea started to form. "Bobby! I'm calling Bobby, he'll know where to look!"

Bobby could help, the older hunter knew a little something about dogs (and witches); he would know what to do, if anyone could help them now it was him. Dean was reaching for his cell when his father finally shook off the stupor that had befallen him and held up a hand to stop him.

"I already called Bobby, he's coming over." John was still eyeing the—_his son_ wearily, and he seemed to find the control over his emotions that Dean was still missing, his voice barely giving anything away. "We need to figure out what's wrong with him, he's hurt, I had to knock him out and he started bleeding." John slowly approached the bed, sitting down on the edge of it, well out of reach of the trembling legs. "I'm pretty sure I hit the side of his head."

Dean tried to force the image of his father hitting his brother out of his head, which was pretty easy to do, because for some reason he just couldn't picture Sam as a four-legged animal in it, even though the evidence was right there, panting miserably on the bed in front of him.

John studied the dog for a moment, slowly scooting closer so as not to startle him then carefully reached out toward Sam's head. His brother didn't pay any attention or maybe he simply didn't see the movement at first, but when John carefully placed a hand over the makeshift muzzle and tried to get a hold of the furry head Sam flinched back, his large paws scratching over the mattress as his body tensed and he struggled to crawl away from the human. He didn't get far, John slowly turned the trembling body onto the other side and gingerly placed the big head in his lap where he could fix it and have a closer look at it. A low growl rumbled through the animal's chest, but it soon fell silent, as if it didn't have enough energy left to complain about the situation.

If it really was _Sam_, the lack of response was a very, very bad sign.

It took Dean a second to get his feet and the crutches beneath him, but he was soon hobbling over to the bed, sitting down at the foot of it and leaning toward his brother to get a better look at the injury. There was a small bloody spot where Sam's head had been and the fur on the side of his head had a red tinge to it, but it was too long to make out how serious the injury under it was.

"How is he?" Dean asked softly, fighting the urge to reach out and run a soothing hand across the trembling flank next to him.

Not looking up from where he was still inspecting the wound, John shrugged slightly, turning the furry head a little to the side. "I can't tell, he is still bleeding but I think it's slowing down. Get me some towels."

Cursing the cast, again, Dean got to his feet, limped toward the bathroom and slung the unused towels he found there over his shoulder. As soon as he approached the bed the dog started to growl again, his nose twitching slightly in Dean's direction. Dean frowned and eyed the animal for the moment, not really sure if his presence would freak it out even more.

"You think he recognizes us?" He asked softly, biting back the more pressing question: Is he still himself, is he still _Sam_?

If his father caught the hidden question he never gave any indication; he shrugged slightly, absentmindedly running a hand through the thick hair at the dog's neck. "I don't know, he tried to attack me when I wouldn't let him leave."

Dean barely managed to swallow a humorless snort, that didn't really help at all, it was as much in character for a pissed Sam as it might have been completely appropriate behavior for a wild, scared animal. He couldn't tell anything from it.

Dean limped a step closer, handing the towels over to his father and watching how John carefully wrapped one of them around the furry head. The dog silently bared his fangs at the movement, but other than that didn't react to John's ministrations at all. Dean felt his throat close up at the lack of response, Sam was too quiet, too lethargic, his body seemed to shut down in front of their eyes, they needed to do something to help him ASAP.

"You think we should get him to a… a _vet_?"

It felt so weird to say these words, he would have given anything if he could just turn it into a joke. He could easily come up with hundreds of wordplays on dog-related issues, it would make _awesome_ material to tease his brother with for all eternity and beyond. And still he found himself stumbling over the words, unwilling to accept the possibility that this might be real. Which, as he watched the giant paws scrabble weakly over the bed sheets, he had to grudgingly admit, might actually be a little naive.

John didn't seem to notice Dean's misery; he didn't even look up from his lap. "No, we wait for Bobby, as long as he doesn't get worse we won't let anybody see him like this, we don't know what they'd do to him…"

Dean frowned, he didn't have any idea _how_ they would be able to tell if Sam got 'worse', he didn't know what symptoms to look for. They'd never had a dog before (or any pet for that matter) and so he didn't know squat about what to do when they were sick or injured or how to look after them.

John looked up at him, nodding his chin at the laptop sitting on top of the table next to the window. "See if you can find anything about concussions and dogs, we need to know what to look for."

Good idea.

Dean limped over, watching his father checking the restraints on the dog as he waited for the computer to boot. The dog no longer reacted to John moving his body, the eyes just blinked heavily as they slowly roamed the room.

Dean watched him for a moment, took in how the wild eyes struggled to track the movement of John's hands. And he felt his chest tighten even more with the sudden realization that this wasn't a joke, no prank his brother was playing on him. If this… if they didn't find a solution, a cure, if they couldn't reverse this and… and Sam—

He'd heard of something like this happening before, he'd talked to many victims of curses before, how bad they could get and how people would never be the same again. And what if—what would they do? Tame him? _Train_ him? Teach him some tricks? Sam wouldn't want to live like this; he would never agree to spend the rest of his days as an animal. They'd never talked about something like this before but he knew his brother and Sam would rather d—rather not—

No, no way, not going to happen, Sam wasn't staying like this, they needed him back in shape, he would not spend the rest of his life with a freaking dog riding shotgun, that was just not happening, no way! He needed his brother back, how the heck was he supposed to look after a four-legged Sam who'd chase his own tail all the friggin' time just because he could? Man, this couldn't—he wouldn't—He needed his brother, damn it!

Bobby would know what to do.

And Dean just needed to stop whining right now and put all that crap aside, he needed to concentrate on the case at hand, he had a job to do, even if it was just looking up how to care for an injured dog.

He forced himself to tear his eyes from the scene in front of him and started his research. It didn't take him long to find out that dogs could indeed suffer from a concussion just like humans could, which, for some odd reason, surprised him a lot more than it probably should. The symptoms were the same, the dog would get nauseated, its eyes would look dilated even in low light conditions and its movements would look disorientated and lack coordination. The only thing that was different was the first thing he always checked after Sam got knocked out during a hunt, he couldn't really check the dog for slurred speech or find out if he still knew when he was born or who the members of The Who were.

He read the symptoms out for their dad, watched John try to get a good look at the dog's eyes to check them and winced when his father declared that it indeed seemed to be a concussion and they needed to keep him under close observation.

And wait for Bobby.

* * *

**A/N 2: **Yes, I know, Sam is a _wolf_, not a dog, but I figured both John and Dean would be too overwhelmed by the situation to care for details. Rest assured that they did find out about the differences later! ;)


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